#mouse's writing

[anony-mouse-writer]

why hermit archives Joe Hills is less despicable than Jurgen Leitner even though they technically serve the same role in the story:

Simple - he's Joe Hills

okay no but for real. Joe has more of his special brand of charisma in his pinky than Jurgen has in his whole body. that being said, im feeling verbose and needed a half decent excuse to re-read the hermit archives, so spoilers for The Magnus Archives distributed by the Rusty Quill and the crossover fanfic From The Archives by @sixteenth-days

Introduction - Hi there, Joe Hills here, recording as I always do...

so obviously, every narrator in both series is an unreliable narrator to some extent. something about the eldritch influence of fear itself seems to have an adverse affect on the little things, like authorial bias. its whatever.

however, for both of these cases, our primary impressions of the these two characters- whose role I will be referring to as The Curator for the rest of this cuz I'll be referencing it a lot and im lazy- is the same. both are only spoken of in passing reference by the victims of their books. there's usually an understandable lack of curiosity by the victims to dig further into the origins of their books, but for everyone lacking immediate incentive to stop looking (and occasionally, even those who aren't), the pattern is unmistakable: Curator's nameplate = dangerous spooky book.

as the audience (on the first viewing), we're increasingly aware of the nameplates and their ties to the entities and it's clear that the archivists are aware of them to some extent as well, but neither party has any real glimpse into The Curator's motivations or story until:

The Curator's Statement - Call it a desire for narrative presence!

when we finally meet Jurgen in person, he saves Jon lotta J names in this, huh from the Strange clutches of Not!Sasha with a book and a pithy one liner. The entire rest of his screen time is spent with a dawning realization that this man isn't a malicious actor or even a knowledgeable shadow, standing against the forces of fear with wit and skill. instead, he's just a man. a particularly lucky man whose cloying, whining cowardice isn't even enough to tempt the fear entities he's willingly surrounded himself with. For all his attempts to appear otherwise, Jurgen is an underwhelming disappointment - a fail upward bohemian whose eye for 'value' and sense of drama painted him into a much more intimidating figure than reality.

Joe Hills, on the other hand is an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in lime green scene gloves and chains. He is, in many ways, a perfect foil to Jurgen. Obviously, there is the narrative awareness that is endemic to Joe Hills, an advantage which seems to have served him as well as Jurgen's luck. But there's also the little quirks of their personalities. Jurgen's failed attempts at self preservation and heroics contrasted to Joe's blithe acceptance of his mortality the fates of his collection's victims. Jurgen whines impatiently at Jon about wasted time and Joe meanders thoughtfully through his reflections and their little asides until Cleo reminds him of the limited tape.

And then there's the presentation of their statements. Jurgen comes to the archives for aid and gives his statement as a bartering tool. For all his former vanity, he recognizes his tale is not one of a shadowed hero or tragic warden, but a cautionary tale of trying to contain the forces of fear. He hides and waits till a point of dramatic tension to reveal himself, using the bits of knowledge he gained through the blood and sanity of others to keep himself safe. He is alone. Reviled and hunted, with just enough knowledge to be a problem, and not enough to be a threat. And in the end, his last, half-hearted attempt to leave a mark on the narrative is dashed and he becomes a conduit for someone else's bid for power.

Joe sends the institute his statement of his own accord in order to participate in the narrative of the archives. He is introduced in much less tenuous position largely due to his own agency in his life. Joe, as he tells Cleo, lives as though in a fable. He is careful and aware of his surroundings, but he is also clever and willing to exploit the offers given to him. he doesn't wait for the story to come to him, he reaches out to find it.

Outside Looking In - ...gathering the evils of the world and locking them away.

There are, of course, several lists for which roles and entities the hermits best embody- personally, I quite enjoy @magicalmanhattanproject's- but what all of them agree on is that whatever his role in the narrative, JoeHills is Definitely Not Normal. on one hand, he is too aware of himself and his surroundings to be an easy pawn or the catalyst of pandora's box by ignorant hubris; but on the other, his mercurial sense of chaos lends perfectly well to the sorts that become avatars of fear. the question from there is not if, but who's avatar is Joe Hills? regardless of your answer, his participation as an avatar is not in question.

Jurgen longs to be a part of the story. he wants recognition, and even after he realizes the ironic monkey's paw granting of his wish, he still strives to be a hero. but the lesson he seems to have failed to grasp, despite his time in-the-know as it were, is that one cannot have an affect on the story without first being a part of it. Adelard Dekker is perhaps the closest to an exception there is, succumbing in the end to death, but remaining himself throughout. but in every other case, the only thing reliably capable of countering one fear entity is another. Jurgen tries to use the books as a conduit, to harness their power while remaining untouched, and it's not enough. not even close.

(arguably, not surrendering oneself to an eldritch fear entity would be the ethically correct move, but from someone who was self admittedly ruthless and sacrificed several other people to gain the paltry knowledge he can use, it seems to be less for some attempt at an uncorrupted high ground and more because he was a coward too afraid to commit his own skin to the game.)

Joe doesn't seek to harness the entities. he doesn't play his game with death to prolong his life for the sake of living or a fear of the end, but to explore and experience a world that he is very much a part of.

Conclusion - And really, isn’t that the most any of us fragile little humans could ask for?

so in conclusion, Joe is a more likable character than Jurgen because he's more charismatic, more autonomous, and hasn't managed to alienate every affiliated existence on earth. what else is there?

well, the rest from here is more speculation then analysis since we haven't seen Joe's response to pressure since his time as the Curator. but if I had to guess, when confronted by a man with a pipe and good reason to want him out of the picture, Joe would do a bit more than snivel and beg.

and that is the Joe Hills difference.

[girlboyburger]

[theender36]

There should be a Mickey Mouse movie where his public domain status is represented by him being a cartoon animal in real life and he has to deal with sort of a reversal of "old person whose friends have all passed" because he's out in the world now has so much potential but so many of his friends and family can't be there with him. The only times he can spend any time with them are when they're in a Disney project together (in a non-Disney movie, he could vaguely refer to his "old friends" who we never see onscreen). So the whole movie, he's feeling the paradoxical limitations of that freedom. There could even be a sequence of him trying to be a big new horror mascot but resenting it the whole time. And maybe ultimately it's the genuine creativity and joy of fans that he's able to find that new meaning he's looking for.

[fisshbones]

Things that genshin & honkai star rail men do that are icks.

gn! reader [dr.ratio, gorou, sampo, childe, aventurine] fluff / crack

a/n: aventurine’s was written before his release, but tbh all the characters are probably super ooc, sorry lol. lowkey just slandering them :3

Dr ratio: 📏

You know that “aksually ☝️” meme. Yeah that’s him. “By my calculations the answer should be eightee-“ “Actually ☝️the correct answer is…” Even if you’re just starting your opinion he’ll just tell you that your opinion is wrong. Like fym my opinion is wrong it’s an opinion for a reason???😭

Gorou: 🐕

Barks and growls. Those doggy genes run deep, because he is territorial as hell. While it’s really adorable at times, it’s also kinda cringey. 😕 Sometimes when some guy is talking to you for too long he’ll just randomly start growling 🐺 Don’t mind him he’s just trying to show who’s the true alpha!! /hj -> As for the barking, sometimes when you’re looking particularly pretty/handsome he accidentally barks once or twice. Don’t get mad at him he just gets overly excited sometimes. ☠️

Sampo: 💸

Steals food off your plate without asking first. He waits for you to be distracted so he go in for the kill (he just stole some of your fries🍟 ) If you manage to catch him red handed and accuse him of stealing your food. He’ll try gaslighting you for about two minutes before relenting and apologizing buy paying for your lunch 💀

Childe: 🏹

Holds things above you head so you have to struggle to jump up and grab it. You think you’re safe if your taller than him? Nope try again. He’ll just grab it and climb somewhere high up (the counter or table) with it just to piss you off even more 😑 He think’s you’re cute when you’re reaching for it too. (I want to fight him)

Aventurine: 🎲

Constantly looking at himself + gambling. I’m giving him two idc… When i say gambling I don’t just mean poker i mean he’ll make bets with you over the smallest of things. “I bet you free dinner if Topaz starts yelling at me in the next 3 minutes.” She indeed start giving him hell. 🗣️‼️ Another one i think he’d do is constantly looking at himself. Going shopping? 🛍️ He’s stopping every few blocks to make sure his hair still looks good in the reflection of the window. At dinner? Checking himself out in the spoon’s reflection.🥄 Can you blame the man for always wanting to look his best? No, thought so.

Like and reblogs are appreciated <3

[willowser]

not to be so disgusting and gross about gojo on the dash but i think he's such a flirty, teasing idiot that, when you show him genuine and true affection, he goes all somber and quiet.

like you come up to him after dinner and stand on your tip-toes and hug him for no reason, give him a fat kiss on the cheek for no reason, and he just — lets you. doesn't say anything, just kind of hums and lightly places his hands on your hips, so gently you might not even know they're there. you tell him, "i love you, thank you for eating with me," and he presses his mouth to the top of your head, lips squished, and says it back, but there's no jokes, no teasing remarks. he just allows himself to be weak and to bask in it, for as long as he can.

[paintpanic]

Magolor Apology Video

[kingprinceleo]

just kinda a thing i wanted to say since ik i have younger artists following me (its applicable to everyone really, but very important to form care habits as early as possible) i read about others artists experiencing pain from overworking and i always thought to myself, i wouldnt let that happen to me, im real young, i still have time before i have to worry about really damaging my body

but your body really doesnt care, if you push yourself, if you ignore the pain, its going to fuck you up. maybe for the rest of your life please god take care of yourself when you draw, write, game, literally anything. stretch your wrists, fingers, dont keep your elbow in a locked a position for too long, especially dont lean on your elbows. get up around every 45 minutes, drink water, eat food, use the bathroom, stretch your whole body and your hands again. walk outside and let your eyes readjust your body is trying to communicate with you for a reason when you start hurting, please listen to it, be kind to yourself, you deserve it

[toonheartz]

[ID: A reference image for a blue version of Mickey Mouse.

Their name is Mick, and they're wearing a black hoodie with the hood down, and a sleeveless denim jacket over it. The front of the jacket is covered in many pins, like the trans pride flag, the genderfluid flag, a black patch that says "the first pride was a riot", an ambiguous shape with a red crossed out symbol over it, a watermelon, the autism creature, and a small black patch that is cut off due to the angle, reading "eat the".

The back of the jacket has the Public Domain symbol, white a lower case C on a black background that is crossed out, with ears at the top to match Mick.

They are holding a dark blue offset cane, and have band aids on their leg, nose, and one finger.

Text around her says:

-any pronouns -soft spoken but stands up for their friends -fucks around and finds out -being of pure spite

Back patch should always be the public domain symbol with ears

Feel free to swap patches in the same theme or omit them for simplicity

Uses cane for balance, relieving pressure on his legs, and whacking people

Bandaids are optional and can be any color / placed anywhere (she's very clumsy)."

The very bottom of the page has the hashtag, "mickeysona".

End ID.]

lil something to celebrate the mouse entering the public domain :]

[mossmurdock]

thinking about nanami in casual clothes very heavily right now. a sweater and sweats that hang off him cause they're actually one size too large. you had overshot in the sizing when you bought them for him, but now it doesn't feel so much like a mistake, they suit him too well.

at first, he doesn't seem to catch on to why you become so attached to him when he's dressed more comfortably. doesn't see any sort of attraction in his hair being so tousled, the appeal of him stretching while in a loose shirt, or the charm of him still blinking sleep away as he brushes his teeth. you assure him that you still love him put together, but there's just something about him letting loose around you that makes you happy.

he lets you undress him when he gets home sometimes, a routine you eased him into slowly. when you first moved in it pained you to still see him in his suit or tie despite him having been home for some time. when things were worse, you would find him in the living room the next morning splayed on the couch and with hardly any time to take off his shoes.

your plan started slow, catching him at the door and loosening his tie as soon as you greeted him, trapping him at the entrance with conversation and enough affection to have him slightly spinning. it would at least get his coat off. other articles were slightly more difficult, but not impossible. his dress shirt often comes next, when he grows tired of your fleeting affection and finally catches you in a deeper kiss; your hands wander casually, leaving the nape of his neck and planting themselves on his hips. he lets you untuck his shirt with ease, too immersed in making sure you knew and felt how much he missed you.

when the two of you break away, he always looks much softer than when he walked in.

"let's take this off?" you offer, tugging at the hem of his shirt and guiding him toward the room. "i want you to be comfortable."

and he'll gruff and mutter and act releuctant, but follow nonetheless. he can't find himself denying anything when around you. "i'm well aware," he'll reply through a chuckle.

he chooses your favourites without being asked, sometimes will even pick based on what you're already wearing so that the two of you match. he knows it makes you happy, your smile wide when he comes to join you on the couch. the two of you might read separately or while the other watches something on the television. it didn't matter, as long as the both of you are tangled together and you can feel the sigh of relief that escapes his chest when he feels the weight of your head rest on his shoulder.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

If Ramshackle did become an official dorm, what attribute would be associated with it?

[Referencing this post!]

I think it'd be neat if Ramshackle's value was ingenuity, creativity, or something along those lines! It's the dorm that is the most "different" from the others and also houses more than one unconventional student (including the weird resident rock eater, Grim). Yuu, who lives in Ramshackle, doesn't have magic but it can be argued that they make up for that deficit through other talents and skills--which is something that requires ingenuity. In a way, this could also be seen as Yuu's own "magic", since actual magic uses imagination (which is tied to creativity) to help visualize spells.

Ramshackle isn't formally associated with a particular figure from Disney animation, but if we assume that Mickey is the equivalent of a G7 figure then the creativity angle also makes sense. Mickey is well-known as the mascot for Disney, and Disney is known for innovation in the realm of animation, especially with the release of the first cel animated feature length film, Snow White. I don't know if I would call Disney the pinnacle of creativity now (with them churning out sequels, making live actions versions of their classics, and buying up more competition rather than producing original works), but they were back in the day. It helps that the world of Twisted Wonderland has mainly involved characters twisted from the 2D era of Disney works, which is generally considered to be their "peak".

[anony-mouse-writer]

the first time it's a whistle

it comes to him from a distance, eerily clear between the mocking calls of his executioners and heated crackle of the flames. high and trembling, its nearly enough to distract him from the wet hollow dug into his chest, just below his collar. it whispers at the edge of his awareness, filling him with malicious glee as he draws back the bowstring.

it leaves as quickly as it came, the vicious flush of poetic retribution whisking it away before the aching cavity between his ribs has even settled properly.

.

the second time it comes to him as a scream

a piercing cry, it bites through armor and flesh, burying deep in his spine like sharpened iron. endless and shrill, it drowns out the world around him, shrieking high in his skull, overwhelming and inescapable. every heartbeat, it wails, pitching higher and more painful as he is denied blood again and again. the pitiful, whining assurances meant to soothe and the nervous chuckles of laughter bleed into the torrent to feed the screaming chorus. 

it claws at the confines of his skull with every breath, a thousand thousand voices, raging, agonized, demanding. each shrill spurring him to new heights of bloodlust, seeping into his vision in flashes of violent, pulsing scarlet. his sleep is fitful and tense as he closes his eyes and listens to the screeching echoes crying for justice, death, blood, death bloodDEATHDEATH- 

watching the flashing arc of feathers pierce the traitor’s neck barely serves to quell the screams; the distant whistle far, far from enough to satiate the maddening echo. it shrieks, incensed, at the theft of its rightful kill, demanding penance, blood, and death.

the echoing blast of death is almost a comfort, short and final as it is.

.

the third time he hears it, it changes

at first, it's like a song - a siren’s call. sweet and thick, a twisting miasma crooning promises as cloying as the smoke that chokes his lungs. and rising in harmony beside it, a symphony of discord echoing a heady psalm of vengeance.

but even as the tainted lament swells in his ears, muffling his thoughts and choking his reason, a different tune calls out; one no less insistent, but a welcome chill in the ashy haze. pure and sharp as a bugle, the new melody soothes against his aching lungs, offering a blessed relief from the horrid pollution of need that sings around him.

the cool refrain shivers along his bones, demanding a chaos he can cheerfully grant. it warbles brightly in time with his swings as he digs deep, and quivers low in his belly as he strains trembling hands out to press the shining tag into sculk-worn flesh. 

there is no perfect justice, no poetic death to bring him his peace. but this time, as he drinks in the panicked cries beyond the new walls and hums in time with its gleeful tune, he feels satisfied. 

an eager grin steals across his face as he surveys his work, breathless - not with smoke and trembling bloodlust, but anxious adrenaline and wild, thrilling laughter.

[north-noire]

Behold! I am the magic anon #058! Now it’s time to dropkick William Afton into the fifteenth dimension!

The FNAF good ending just dropped.

[alonzoarts]

GETT A LITTLE [F1] AROUND YOUR D3SKT0P FOR [[No Money Down!]] EVER!! GO AHEAD , LEFT-CLICK THOSE [DOWNLOAD NOW] !! ITS [All Included] ON [[cursor.cc]]

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[fisshbones]

Sunday’s little bird 🪶

A/n: first and probably only attempt at yandere, blurb, likely ooc, not proofread, tbh i hate how fhis came out, written before I finished 2.1 or started 2.2 Gn! Reader

(set in an already established relationship)

Cw: yandere, kidnapping, toxic relationship, manipulation, lowkey naive reader, drugs, birds, hinted animal death.

Sunday had a pretty little pet bird that he named after you. The bird’s feathers are the same color as your hair. The bird is treated like royalty. A big beautiful white cage, for when it’s misbehaving or sleeping. But if you ask for the bird’s name he’d just say some random name. He fears he’ll weird you out knowing that he named an animal after you.

Somewhere down the road Sunday starts to wonder about the possibility of keeping you in the cage instead of the bird. After all if you were caged you would be safe. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, not after he lost his sister too. Locking you up just seems like the safest option. Would you forgive him for locking you up? He hopes you will because it’s his only option..

He starts having you come over and help him take care of his little birdy-you. It’s his tactic on helping you acclimate to your future home. You’ve been to his home many times, the only thing that’s different is taking care of his little bird. While you’re getting acclimated with your future roommate, Sunday is out making arrangements for people to ‘attack’ you. He knows you won’t willingly stay caged, so he needs to scare you. Every time you’ve gone out for the last few weeks you’ve been threatened, attacked, or robbed. Without fail Sunday is always there to comfort you, like the sweet loving boyfriend that he is.

After a particularly bad attack he brought you home and patched you up. He gave you some pain killers and helped you to bed so you’d feel better in the morning. The following day you would awake to a chain around your ankle, locked in the big beautiful white cage, with your feathery roommate in your food dish. After you’re done eating your breakfast, he’ll help you bathe and get you dressed in some pretty white clothes. You will forever be Sunday’s pretty little dove now.

As always likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated <3 Also please send in inspo :((

Song that i listen to while writing this -> Bernadette (post romanian storm) iamx

[sprout-fics]

sometime after the kerfuffle with the 141 and Kortac is done, I'd like to see Konig's reaction to Maus going missing when trying to recover. I think man's would be terrified out of his mind that his sniper just up and disappeared while injured, meanwhile her whole team is just like "ffs not again, get the net and blanket and look in the vents"

Ohoho see I think the team would have so much fun with Konig, would send him on a wild goose chase just to get back at him for all the grief he caused them in the past. (Messy little drabble, not exactly a oneshot)

It had been three hours since you’d gone missing. 

Four, technically, because König had arrived at the infirmary an hour after your disappearance, encountering a fatigued medic who had tiredly informed him of your sudden absence. She’d merely raised a single eyebrow to König's frantic efforts to get more information, and had eventually waved him off with a jaded comment of ‘This happens all the time.’

As if that somehow made him worry less.

You couldn’t have gone far, he theorized. With a sprained ankle, a broken arm, and a mild concussion, it was unlikely that you could have made it to the other side of the base by the time he had started searching for you.

That was three hours ago. Now, as the afternoon slowly crept towards evening, König could feel his panic rising at the idea you had simply vanished. He had searched everywhere. Your room, the mess hall, the rec room, the gym, the firing range, the training course- He’d even checked Price’s office, wondering if you had sought refuge there instead of being in your bed where you belonged.

When he had knocked on the door Price had leveled him with a look, wondering why the newest member of the newly formed SpecGru dared to darken his doorstep. Yet when König had belayed his concerns to the captain, Price had lifted his report to his face and idly told König to once again check the mess hall. 

(König didn’t see the wry, sadistic smile that sprawled across Price’s lips)

Yet with the mess hall still empty, he had instead found Ghost, who tilted his head at the Austrian as König tried to explain why he was all but racing around base trying to find you. Ghost made a strange little huffing sound in response that, If König didn’t know better, he might almost mistake it for laughter. He then suggested looking into the women’s barracks to see if you had somehow disguised yourself as one of the recruits.

(That venture went over rather poorly)

As he’d been chased out, König had run into Soap, who had cackled at the Austrian’s misadventure and consequent flowery aroma resulting from one of the women throwing a shampoo bottle at him. 

“Rookie?” He’d echoed, looking surprised. It took him a moment to understand, at which point a peculiar smile pulled at his mouth, sly and amused at König's quest. 

“Aye.” He intoned, eyes averted so Konig couldn’t see the utter glee in them. “Y’know what? I saw her over at the training grounds climbing up into the tower. Bet you anything she’s still there.”

König had thanked him profusely, had darted off in the direction Soap had spoken of, unseeing of the way Soap hid his laughter until he was gone. 

(The training grounds were empty, of course.) 

As daylight darkened König resisted the urge to tear at his hood in frustration. It seemed, to him, that you were exactly where the men said you were, only to seemingly read his mind and vanish to a new location every time he drew near. Maybe they were alerting you, for whatever sadistic reason, sending him on a wild goose chase for pure entertainment. 

Eventually, when he had run into Gaz, König had all but fallen at his feet pleading for assistance, trying desperately to find you and haul you back to bed so as to not injure yourself further. 

“She has a habit of hiding in the vents.” Garrick told him with a straight face, not an ounce of deception in his eyes. “Usually over by the armory, or the officers quarters, or the kitchens, or the infirmary…” He trailed off, looking nonplussed, and eventually offered König a small shrug. Then Gaz had brushed past him with a small excuse, and as König rushed off towards the locations Garrick had suggested, Gaz sent a small message to you:

“You owe me one.”

(You were nowhere in the vents, naturally)

König spent until dark asking every person he ran into if they had spotted an injured soldier running around earlier that day. It took several explanations for them to understand, and when they did König inevitably saw a weary, annoyed expression cross over their faces before they shooed him away in favor of their current task. 

Eventually, König had collapsed  against a pile of crates in one of the nearby warehouses, shoulders slumping as he desperately wracked his brain for any other possible location where you could have hidden. Half a day had passed since your disappearance, and not once had anyone seen you. To his knowledge you hadn’t eaten, hadn’t taken your medication, had failed to be present for your check-in-

König couldn’t stop the dark, churning thoughts that in your weakened, vulnerable state someone might have taken it upon themselves to abduct you. The fact that the team didn’t seem to share his concerns only made his heart drive higher in his throat, stifling the air in his chest as he pleaded with the heavens to return you. You drew his gaze upwards, to the rafters of the warehouse, wondering if somehow the heavens could hear his prayer. 

A small shape, just above the upper walkway, not entirely obscured by one of the long steel beams that supported the roof. 

“...Maus?”

The shape stiffened. 

König scrambled to his feet, eyes locked on the figure lofted high above the warehouse floor, on a flat, wide beam that effortlessly supported you. As he called once more, a chagrined expression turned down towards him, a guilty smile offered in apology.

“Hi, Konig.”

Distantly, König could hear the sound of something in his mind fracturing. 

“Maus, get down here.” He nearly bellowed, voice thundering upwards. Yet far from scaring you, you only offered him a little pout and replied with a small:

“Mmm, no.”

“Maus!!”

You giggled, and the audacity of your refusal was nearly enough to send König onto his ass once more. Cursing under his breath, he realized the only way to get you down from the precariously high perch where you lay was to come get you himself. 

Two ladders later, and 50 feet up in the air, König could see you facing him, blanket draped over you, cheek propped on one hand, and snack wrappers littered about you. It was like you had made a little nest up here, intent on avoiding anyone who may pester you.

“Not a Mouse.” He thought wearily. “Perhaps a baby bird.”

You refused, initially, to leave your little loft that remained just out of his reach, even as König clung to the railing and tried to reach for you. Yet eventually when his frustration had given way to a near frantic, pleading whine, he could see genuine guilt color your gaze, and eventually you had performed the delicate maneuver of scooting yourself forward so he could hoist you into his arms. 

Yet rather than immediately try to take you down and back towards the medical wing, König instead slumped against the railing of the walkway, his arms fastening around you and a heavy sigh of relief tickling across your hair. 

“Please.” He begged, gathering you tightly to him, a protective hold to refuse your escape as much as it would protect you. “Please don’t ever do that again, Maus.”

Warm, wrapped in his scent, you smiled, nuzzled against his chest with a weary little murmur. 

“I won’t.” You promised, feeling your boyfriend completely and entirely relax against you, head falling gently back against the railing in satisfaction. 

(He didn’t see your fingers crossed behind your back)

[spottedsnake]

carson can’t enjoy his strawberry mojito in peace